


Princess, Are You Condoning The Destruction of Royal Paladin Space Suits?

by EmperorSnarkon (launchmeintospace)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Cuban Lance (Voltron), LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, Platonic Relationships, Trans Character, Trans Characters, Trans Lance (Voltron), Trans Pidge | Katie Holt, for keith not allura, hinted pining lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 07:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11916480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/launchmeintospace/pseuds/EmperorSnarkon
Summary: "It is not destruction, it is repurposing."





	Princess, Are You Condoning The Destruction of Royal Paladin Space Suits?

Beside the occasional gut wrenching loneliness and near physical need to see his family, Lance didn't really regret having found his way to space as a Paladin of Voltron. Not even the constant threat of the Galra, of failure, of his own death, made him wish he hadn't found Blue. After all, those were all part of a very important job he was executing. He was helping save lives throughout the Universe; how could he bring himself to regret that?

He did, however, regret jumping into a 10,000-year-old war with only the clothes on his back. He'd been using the same dirty socks (and everything else) for a week before the Alteans had thought to tell them how to get their clothes washed. Even though he could wash his clothes every day if need be, it didn't change the fact he still wore the same thing day after day. The elbows of his long sleeved shirt were worn down, close to birthing holes, and his baggy jeans already had rips at the knees. They weren't even stylish; Lance was starting to look like a clean hobo. His jacket, by some miracle, was doing just fine. And, at first, so had his underwear.

Until the lack of testosterone shots had started catching up with him. After a few weeks in space, his guts had started to churn, sometimes aching dully, sometimes sharply as if his uterus were being pinched. He had woken up on the third night with one of those sharp aches in the middle of the Castle's sleep cycle, feeling vaguely nauseous until he had seen his boxer briefs and sheets in a state he had thought he had seen the last of when he was fifteen. He had been sick onto the floor next to his bed and the nauseous feeling had faded. Thankfully, his period was heavy for only three days before trickling off by the fifth and no one had asked about missing bed sheets or why Lance seemed to suddenly take to whining low in his throat and hitting the sides of his fists to his navel during that time.

Apparently, for being so advanced, Alteans hadn't managed to figure out how to remove blood stains in the normal laundry cycle and like hell Lance was going to use the stain removal cycle; it lasted too long and would probably shrink his clothes.

After that, Lance paraded around the Castle in underwear that had faded bloodstains and clean hobo clothes and that was okay: he was doing just fine. He was doing perfectly okie-dokie until too many training sessions, too many consecutive days, too many hours, amounted to a binder that didn't only stop compressing like it used to but had ripped along his left shoulder and right side. Working as a Paladin of Voltron was helping Lance pack on muscle he'd always wanted, but it meant his binder had gotten too small and had worn down too fast.

It wasn't until that that he started seriously thinking that he was screwed. Not only was he bleeding again, his admittedly small breasts would be noticeable once more, and his carefully crafted facade of cocky cis boy would fall apart. He'd be the self-conscious transgender boy whose body was caught in limbo. And he wasn't Pidge; he wasn't ready for everyone to know.

Which was why he was locked in his room at the start of a perfectly fine day cycle, missing breakfast as he almost desperately tried to sew the seams of his binder back. Every time he struggled to put it on, the thread split. Every time, more small, hot tears forced themselves out. He refused to leave his room without a flat chest and if he had to hide for the rest of eternity to avoid it, then so be it.

So be it.

The slender needle jabbed into Lance's shaking thumb and he hissed, grimacing. Frustrated, he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing more tears to join the cooled ones gathered in his lashes and the ones drying down his cheeks. Logically, he knew there was just no way to repair his binder with just a needle and thread. What he needed to do was replace it, but how? He was in freaking space! He couldn't order a brand new binder from within the void. Despite knowing he couldn't fix it, Lance kept trying, feeling desperation as a phantom tension between his lungs.

Lance sat in his room all through breakfast and then some, but he didn't notice until hesitant knocking made him aware of his numb butt and how hard his fists were clenching black cloth and the needle. Quickly, he threw both into the corner of his bed that couldn't be seen from the doorway and scrubbed at his eyes. Despite the fact he wasn't going to open the door, he straightened his spine and his legs so his slumped position by his bed looked more casual and less like he'd been wallowing in self-pity.

"What's up?" He called in what he had hoped was a nonchalant voice but had instead come out roughly, like he'd just woken up after a weeklong coma with a sore throat. Rolling his lips between his teeth, he stared at the door and waited.

"Are you okay, buddy?" He heard Hunk's concerned voice. "You never miss breakfast."

Lance shut his eyes. "I know. I'm just- I'm not feelin' so good." Not a lie, but not the whole truth.

There was a pause. "Are you sick? Do you need anything?"

"Nah, bro, I'm okay. Just need some me time for a while."

"Uh, okay. I'll bring you breakfast. Tell me if you need anything, okay?"

"Yep." Lance stared at his fingers, rubbing over the tiny wound in his thumb. Misery filled his guts. Hunk was his best friend, the one person he felt he could talk about anything with, yet there he was, refusing to open the door for him because there was apparently one thing he couldn't, wouldn't talk to Hunk about.

Lance didn't hear him walking away, but there was no follow up response. He was just as alone as when he had started, but, somehow, the space felt emptier. He felt emptier.

Sighing, he grabbed a fist full of his brown hair, tugging at the strands that were inching their way down his forehead, around his ears, and over the back of his neck. One or two inches too long. If he didn't cut it soon, not only would he have a mullet to rival Keith's, his face would start looking more feminine. Lance had nothing against feminine men and he knew some times it couldn't be helped even if the dude wanted it too, but he'd spent too much of his life misgendered for he himself to feel comfortable with being seen as soft and pretty. He was done with that. He wanted to be sharp and masculine; someone no one would doubt was a boy and no one would suspect had ever been anything else.

* * *

The others started to get worried. That is, if they weren't before. They probably had; Lance usually spent his days gracing them with his charming presence at all times of the day cycle. For him to shut himself in his room through it all without even opening the door to accept plates of absolutely _delicious_ space goo was straight up unheard of. Or it was until today, the day his binder had not only ripped apart but broken his trust. That binder had once been his saving grace, the reason he felt good enough to get out of bed and face the _world_.

Lance's fragile masculinity did not allow him to step out where the others could see him. It didn't allow him to tell the truth, to explain his self-imposed quarantine. It was embarrassing, especially since he knew the others wouldn't care or treat him any different; they had all accepted Pidge and -besides the use of feminine pronouns and Allura's occasional insistence that they had "girl time"- the way they treated her hadn't changed.

Lance's fragile masculinity forced him to sit by as one by one his teammates knocked on his door, asked how he was doing (if he was alright? Was he sick? Did he need anything? A hug? To talk? To sit in awkward silence just so he wouldn't be alone?), then left after his stubborn refusal to show his face let the conversation die off. Even Allura had stopped by and Lance was pretty sure she wasn't particularly fond of him for his constant flirting.

When his binder had ripped he'd been certain the day couldn't get any worse, but the needless worry he was putting his friends through proved him frickin' wrong. He had to find some way to replace the binder or fix it quickly. He missed poking at Pidge to distract her from her latest project, sneaking looks at Keith as he trained, talking with Hunk about infomercials and memes, hanging with Coran, sneaking glances at Keith as he brooded, discussing the best Sparkly Things with Allura, trying to get Shiro to laugh at his jokes... Lance missed being around them. He couldn't hide away forever just 'cause he was painfully self-conscious of his body. That wasn't behavior fitting for a Paladin of Voltron, which he was, so he needed to get off his ass and over his insecurities, dammit.

It was all easier thought than done.

He had been all "go-go-go" and had scrambled the first few feet to his bedroom door in a frenzy only to freeze with his hand over the square control panel, which lit up an electric blue that matched the accents around the Castle and their armor. Uncertainty made him feel small again, because where would he go? Who would he go to? How would he be able to fix his binder or -better yet- completely replace it?

Pidge? Maybe? Seeing as she was trans too... But she, as a trans girl, wasn't likely to conveniently have a binder. There was nothing to press flat. Even if she had a binder, there was no way Lance would be able to squeeze into it. She was tiny; he was not.

The other Paladins were out too. The odds that they were also closeted trans guys were slim, and if they had binders, they wouldn't fit Lance. Hunk was built like a tank, Shiro was built like... A smaller tank, and Keith had narrower shoulders, a tinier waist.

Maybe Allura would know where Lance could find undershirts that compressed well enough (and maybe new underwear too) or some spare fabric to fix his ratty binder. It was her Castle after all. On the other hand... Coran was friendlier. Lance loved the eccentric dude and he was pretty confident in his belief that he was Coran's favorite Paladin. He would be more sympathetic to Lance's situation. Probably. Plus, he knew the Castle just as well -if not better- than Allura herself.

Somehow, thinking about talking with Coran about this made Lance more nervous than the thought of talking to Allura about it.

Groaning in frustration, Lance allowed his forehead to thud harshly against the cool metal doors. He drew his hand away from the control panel to wrap his arms around himself, lifting his upper lip in disgust as he noted the way his shirt folded around his chest. Turning away from the door, he glanced around for his jacket. It was crumpled against the wall opposite of his bed, right where he'd thrown it before going to bed the previous night. It was the only hint (besides the binder half hidden on his bed) that the room was lived in.

Lance felt marginally better once his jacket was zipped up to his chin, smoothing over his chest. It made him look flat and boxy. Just how he liked it.

He moved to stand in front of the door, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. _I can do this_ , he thought, _no one will be able to tell_. Before he could chicken out, he slapped his shaking hand over the control panel, unlocking the door and subconsciously cringing as it slid open. Unsurprisingly, the hallway was empty, but, unexpectedly, the lights were dimmed for the sleep cycle. A wry, huffed laugh pushed past his nose. He'd spent more time crying over a piece of clothing than he'd thought.

Now he was substantially more screwed; he had no idea where the Altean Royalty kept her bedroom. But maybe she wasn't asleep... She did that sometimes. Lance had walked into the control room once or twice in the middle of the sleep cycle to see her sitting in the middle of projected galaxies, her shoulders slumped and shaking and vulnerable. He could never bring himself to talk to her then.

Guess that was a good place to check. If she wasn't there, it was clearly a cosmic sign that Lance wasn't meant to love himself and he'd have to eject himself out into space through the nearest airlock. Maybe he'd do it anyway even if she was.

Hesitantly, he padded out of his room in direction for the control room. His heart thumped uncomfortably loud. It wouldn't be surprising if it echoed throughout the Castle, a quick yet steady drumbeat as a theme song to his trek during the sleep cycle. Hopefully, he was quiet enough that no one would notice he'd finally left his room and try to talk to him. Without a doubt, he would spontaneously combust.

The doors to the control room had never seemed so ominous. Lance was hoping to get a moment to compose himself before facing either a person or emptiness but he had forgotten that the motion sensitive doors opened automatically when one stepped close enough.

Since it was obviously Lance's lucky day, Allura was indeed having another one of her sleepless nights and spun around in a dramatic flair of white hair and startled eyes. Curse the metal slide of the frickin' doors.

Sheepishly, Lance ducked his head, arms winding tights over his ribs. "Sorry." He whispered, shoulders jerking minutely as his voice cracked halfway through the word.

Allura's posture softened. In the dim blue-green light of the projection, Lance saw as her surprise turned to concern. "We missed you today," She said lowly, tone soft and tired.

"Sorry." He took small steps into the room. "I just-" Lance had no idea what he was going to say. Was it too late to book it back to his quarters?

"Would you like to look at the stars with me?" The Space British Princess offered, gesturing with alien pajama-clad arms to the projections around her.

Lance mumbled "uh, okay" under his breath and slunk over to where Allura sat. Discomfort and nerves twisted his stomach. The whole time he was shuffling over, her blue, pink eyes remained fixed on him. She was probably noting his crappy posture and messed up hair and the slump of his shoulders and all the other off-things with his current appearance that he was too tired to fix. Of course, even in the middle of the night, with shadowy bags under her eyes, Allura was still unfairly beautiful. Her hair gleamed under the dim light, her skin was smooth, her eyebrows perfect, but, for once, Lance wasn't going to pretend to care.

"What's wrong, Lance?" She asked after he sat down next to her. Her perfect eyebrows were scrunched.

His eyes burned again. "It's kinda stupid..." He admitted, looking down at his arms, still clenched around his ribs.

"I doubt whatever has made you isolate yourself is stupid."

"Uh, okay. Okay. Sorry for interrupting your..." mourning. Lance blinked quickly a few times before glancing at the Princess. "I kinda need your help. Well, not kinda. I do. I really do. Um, okay. My- my chest-" he unwrapped his arms to gesture loosely toward said body part, "- it isn't... Naturally flat. The clothing I was using to flatten it became officially too worn down to use today and- I just- I couldn't-" he exhaled. "I couldn't bring myself to leave my room because of it." He paused and glanced again, trying to gauge her expression. She looked a little confused.

"I'm afraid I do not follow." Okay, she was a lot confused.

He scrubbed a hand over his left cheek, skin starting to burn with embarrassment. "What I'm saying, Princess, is that I was born female, but I'm a boy, and I would really appreciate if you knew about something I could use to flatten down my chest."

"Oh!" She gasped in realization and straightened, maybe leaning a little closer to Lance. "Much like Pidge, but the opposite?"

Lance shrugged, nodding. "Yeah."

Allura hummed thoughtfully, but at least she wasn't looking at him like he'd just sprouted three heads and birthed a Waffle House. He didn't know why he expected that; they hadn't looked at Pidge any different after she came out. "Well, the extended use of compression undergarments in our society was rare. It was preferred to physically transition to one's desired body fairly quickly once someone realized the gender they truly were, but I am sure we have materials that will work wonderfully..." She trailed off.

"In our society, this... Being... Being transgender isn't all that widely accepted, especially toward people like me, y'know? Brown. Immigrant. Whatever. And Physically transitioning where ever I researched was crazy expensive. I did start... Before we left earth, I had been taking weekly shots of testosterone for a while. It's, uh, the reason my voice is this deep. It used to be crazy high." His voice cracked on the last word, and he laughed nervously. "B-but since we left, I can't get testosterone shots. Some of the, uh, bodily functions that it stopped have, um, restarted."

"Oh," She whispered. "Do any of the others know?"

"No." He hung his head. "I know I should tell them, but... I get so scared. It's pathetic. I know."

"It is not. I'm sure you have your reasons for feeling the way you do, and you should only inform the others when you feel ready." The Princess placed a hand on his shoulder, a comforting smile on her face. "In the meantime, I am sure I should be able to find something that will work to replace your old compression undergarment-"

"Binder. On Earth, we call it a binder."

"Yes, that. While I work to find you a suitable binder, try wearing a spare space suit top. They do seem rather tight."

A crooked smile snuck onto Lance's face when he wasn't paying attention. "They are. You do realize they're one huge piece, though, right?"

Her eyebrow rose. "So?"

"Oh my god," he giggled. "Princess, are you condoning the destruction of royal Paladin space suits?"

"It is not destruction, it is repurposing."

His giggles extended to quiet, heaving laughs, which somehow ended up becoming sobs. "Crap. I'm- I'm sorry. I'm just- I don't even know."

Allura smiled at him sincerely. "I don't mean to pressure you, but after you come out at least to Coran, we may be able to help you restart your physical transition. I cannot say for sure, because we are not doctors, but perhaps we could at least reintroduce the proper amount of testosterone you need. I cannot do as such on my own, and for that, I apologize."

Smiling painfully big, he shook his head. "It's okay. Um, I'll work up to it. But I'm holding you to this."

"Please do."

After that, the conversation didn't die so much as go to sleep and it went so much better than he could have ever hoped. A boy from Cuba and a space princess from a long extinct planet sat side by side, gazing up at projected stars and galaxies with exhausted but content eyes. Lance felt the lightest he ever had since the whole defender of the universe thing started, since before he'd left his home for the Garrison. Everything was meant to work out. It was destiny.

**Author's Note:**

> hEy GaYmeRS   
> im back with another one shot and double the procrastination {:   
> sorry for all inaccuracies with the whole... comin' off testosterone stuff and please tell me whats off so i can fix 'em. i have no experience with that  
> and i hope? y'all ?? enjoyed this??? drop me a comment if so!! 
> 
> i worked on this during excessively long trips to the bathroom so sorry if it isn't all that good. its also not edited much /:: im what the adults call.... lazy
> 
> my tumblr: emperorsnarkon


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